


Reason does not Enter into It

by twitchtipthegnawer



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Gore, Bottom!Aziraphale, Consensual Violence, Dismemberment, Guro, Historical References, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Torture, Whump, top!Crowley - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-03
Updated: 2019-08-03
Packaged: 2020-07-29 19:43:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20087722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twitchtipthegnawer/pseuds/twitchtipthegnawer
Summary: If Aziraphale knew what a 5+1 fic was, he would say he hadn’t been injured enough to make one. Not seriously, anyway. But no one got to 6,000 years old without being hurt at least a few times, and those times certainly stood out in Aziraphale’s mind.The Dominican order was responsible for one of those times. Crowley was responsible for none, but certainly helped one stand out above the others.





	Reason does not Enter into It

**Author's Note:**

> The first part of this fic is non-consensual guro, featuring a nun utilizing medieval torture devices to injure Azzie, and the second half is consensual comfort guro wherein Crowley helps overwrite that bad experience with one rooted in trust and communication.
> 
> If you only want to read the consensual part, and are using google chrome, go ahead and ctrl+f “---” and read after the break! If the opposite is true, and you only want the hurt portion of the hurt/comfort, just stop when you see the centered break line :””D

Whilst a certain woman by the name of Agnes Nutter was being burned at the stake, Aziraphale was quite a few miles south, finding himself facing a disturbingly similar fate. Not that she was on his mind, at the time. He hadn’t the foggiest idea of who she was just yet.

No, instead, he was thinking to himself,  _ I wish I was in Spanish Inquisition custody. _

Contrary to popular modern belief, the Spanish Inquisition was largely boring. Prisons were relatively clean, and torture was strictly moderated on the rare occassions it was used at all. Secular prisons were quite a bit grosser, to the point where sometimes, prisoners would blaspheme specifically to be put into relatively better custody. Sadly for Aziraphale, he didn’t have that option.

Not because he was an angel, and incapable of blaspheming. He could, and did, blaspheme rather more than most humans could manage with their measly lifetimes. But instead, it was because he was in the custody of the Dominican Order. And the nuns overseeing that custody were far more creative than any Inquisitors would ever get.

“For the last time, I’m telling you, I’m not a witch!” He said, trying to ignore the sweat dripping down his back. The room would’ve been hot even without the torches burning in it, but he supposed they felt the need to maintain a certain ambiance during torture sessions.

The nuns didn’t look particularly happy about it, either, given their conservative dress. All except for Sister Lascivious, whose name struck Aziraphale as inappropriate, especially given the time and place. She would undoubtedly resent that opinion if he’d said it, so he hadn’t. Especially because she already seemed a bit too eager while she pulled out her instruments of torture.

“You continue to deny it, knave, but we shall see if your lies can survive the pain we shall put you through thusly!”

Grinning widely, she set a wickedly spiked, iron hook into the fireplace nearby. Then she pulled out a rectangular contraption, about the size of an average Hallmark card, with screws on either side of it and a set of spikes filling the interior. Slowly, she began to turn the screws, opening the jaws of the trap.

“Torture will only make me confess to crimes I haven’t even committed,” Aziraphale explained for what felt like the upteenth time. “Just ask the Spanish inquisitors, it’s a terribly ineffective method of investigation.”

“The inquisitors are cowards,” Lascivious said with a sniff. “They fear the screams of our mortal bodies, without realizing they are damning themselves to screaming as souls.”

Wryly, Aziraphale replied, “Very poetic, but rather inaccurate.”

Lascivious ignored him in favor of setting the rectangular contraption, now disassembled, with one half on either side of his knee. She screwed it back in enough that it held together on its own, but the metal teeth didn’t dig into his skin particularly.

He knew that could change soon enough.

“Listen, please. I don’t know what you were told, but I’m sure it was a misunderstanding.”

“You were seen flying on a broomstick. This is unambiguous proof of your consortation with Satan and his ilk!”

“I’m not sure consortation is a word,” said Aziraphale, momentarily sidetracked.

Abruptly, he was brought back to the matter at hand by a couple of turns of the screws. His knee ached, the sharp points of the teeth turning into a dull, radiating pain throughout the whole joint. If he’d been a human who had to do any sort of manual labor, the way the majority of the population did, he would’ve been terrified. He could end up crippled for life.

As it was, fear was still gnawing at his belly, and another drop of sweat traced a prickly trail down the back of his neck.

“Do you confess? Will you face your sentence with honesty?”

“I haven’t been convicted yet, let alone sentenced,” Aziraphale pulled on his wrists, but found they were still stuck fast by their ropes. Damn. “My trial hasn’t even happened!”

“We are gathering evidence  _ for  _ the trial,” said Lascivious, as though she were speaking to a child. As though this were common sense and not rare insanity.

A few turns, and suddenly Aziraphale’s pant leg was wet with more than sweat. Blood spread at a slow crawl, but he could feel his bones creaking, and wished he could at least straighten his leg to relieve some of the pressure.

Miracle-ing his way out of this would be so easy.

“Witch! Do you confess?”

“Please, I’m innocent.”

_ Creak. Creak. _

Or he could turn into his true-form, blind and strike these humans to their knees, show them what divine missions truly look like. Ha. No, if he did that, he wouldn’t be Aziraphale.

“Sister Lascivious, are you certain - ”

_ Crunch. _

She repeated, “Confess!” Which even the other nuns clearly knew would be ineffective, given that Aziraphale was too busy screaming to answer.

His knee had given way in spectacular fashion. It now resembled nothing so much as ground meat, which became even more obvious when Lascivious removed the torture device from it. White cartilage shone through the soak of red blood, along with a few deposits of yellow fat. Aziraphale gripped the arms of the chair so hard his fingers hurt to match his leg, and his head hung low when he finally managed to stop crying out long enough to pant for breath.

Blonde locks plastered to his head. Brown pants glued to his calf. And still, it hurt, hurt,  _ hurt. _

“Staying strong, are you? We’ll have to up the ante, then.”

“Sister Lascivious,” said the younger nun who’d spoken up before. “Should we not at least give him ample time to recover, before we continue the interrogation? He might well be ready to confess after being dealt a crippling blow.”

“Look into his eyes,” said Lascivious, gripping his hair and forcing his chin back up. “This is not the gaze of a man whose spirit has been broken. We must continue.”

“But what if - forgive me, for questioning you, but what if he should die before trial?”

“Then he shall die, and we will have enacted his sentence early enough to cause convenience for the executors.” She said. Her finality made Aziraphale shiver, even if she couldn’t really kill him in any way that mattered.

She pulled the wicked looking iron instrument from the fire, and Aziraphale abruptly felt that the room was no longer sweltering. In fact, he was freezing. His shivering was uncontrollable.

“Wait, please!”

To his surprise, she did. Her head cocked, grey eyes staring at him unblinking. He realized, she was waiting for his confession. But he didn’t want to  _ lie.  _ He just wanted it to not hurt anymore. And, with tears rolling fat down his round cheeks, Aziraphale wondered if there was anything he could tell her that would make her stop. Anything that wasn’t blatantly dishonest.

Too slow.

“Remove his shirt,” Lascivious said to the second bystander, the one who’d remained silent. She obeyed, her brown eyes dull even when she used a knife to slit his shirt and take it off without untying him. The protestor averted her eyes with a slight flush.

And then that glowing hot metal was approaching Aziraphale, slowly, inexorably. He wished Lascivious could just do something  _ quickly  _ for once, before abruptly remembering to be careful what he wished for.

Lashing out, she hooked the spikes into his chest. It cauterized the wound even as it dug in, and Azzie pressed his shoulderblades back into the chair, trying in vain to escape the torture. The heat radiated throughout his ribcage, made breathing horrible even while his sobs picked up, his nose was plugged, he didn’t want to breathe but he  _ had to  _ and with his mouth open he could  _ taste _ the scent of his own burning meat, it was -

Horrifying. Ineffable.

Aziraphale coughed, only belatedly realizing that he’d bitten his own tongue and sprayed blood over Lascivious’ face in the process. She didn’t seem upset about it, though; her straight, white teeth were all displayed in a gruesome grin.

Then she pulled  _ back. _

Most of the time, Aziraphale loved how soft his body was. He loved being good for cuddling, being the sort of person children tended to trust at first glance, being squeezed by Crowley when the demon approached him from behind for a rare hug. Right now, with his torso yanked as far as its bonds would let it go, and then his skin shredded and flayed away, he regretted it.

Because if he’d been thinner, perhaps those spikes would’ve gone into his ribcage. Perhaps he’d be disincorporated, and paperwork be damned, he’d be  _ away  _ from this (very literally) godforsaken place.

Nuns muttered over Aziraphale’s head. He didn’t pay attention to what they were saying.  _ Couldn’t  _ pay attention. Could only focus on breathing, breathing, trying to tamp down on the pain long enough to keep the body alive. They should be finishing up soon. And when they left, he could slip his bonds and be away in minutes.

He wished Crowley was there. He was glad Crowley wasn’t.

Crowley would save him, make sure he never had to endure this again.

Crowley would kill the humans, and the moment they were dead, that was  _ it.  _ No more chance at redemption. No more saving their souls.

But God, it hurt.

By the time he realized the room was empty and the fire burned out, Aziraphale had almost resigned himself to losing the body he was in. He was so dizzy, so tired, so cold. But then, he remembered Crowley’s hugs, and dragged enough power up to heal himself. He would tell Crowley what had happened when he was sure Lascivious was dead, of  _ natural  _ causes.

\---------------

“Are you sure about this?”

Aziraphale didn’t hide the nerves in his voice, but Crowley was, for once, serious about responding. “Not at all. Are you?”

Swallowing hard, Aziraphale thought about it. Crowley was crouched on the floor in front of where Aziraphale sat in an old armchair, and he rubbed Aziraphale’s bare shins gently. Both of them were naked, and Aziraphale found himself watching Crowley’s hands. His fingers were so long, they might be able to wrap all the way around Aziraphale’s ankles if he squeezed hard enough. But he wouldn’t. Not tonight.

“Yes, actually.” Aziraphale was more surprised than Crowley was at his own answer.

“Want me to do it manually, or all at once?”

He reached down, to cradle Crowley’s cheeks. The demon looked up at him, open and trusting as always, and Aziraphale felt his heart swell with the care he felt for Crowley. “You decide, darling. This was your idea.”

Now it was Crowley’s turn to think, and the furrow of his pointy brows was endlessly endearing. Aziraphale traced a line down the bridge of his nose with one fingertip, then petted over his cheekbones with his thumbs. Not rushing him, just touching and relishing the connection. Eventually, Crowly hummed, and said, “Alright then.”

His fingers  _ snapped,  _ and Aziraphale fell apart.

Not figuratively. Aziraphale’s limbs came apart at the joints, bleeding stymied but not fully stopped. His fingers and toes lay in tiny chunks on the floor, and his shoulders and hips hurt, but not as accurately as they  _ should,  _ given the injury. Was it shock, or Crowley using demonic magic of some kind? Aziraphale didn’t know.

He was actually too shocked to speak, so Crowley simply hummed, ran a finger along the smooth edge of Aziraphale’s gaping arm hole. “Do you want more? Because I can do more?”

“What’s even left, bisecting me?” Aziraphale was shocked to hear how winded he sounded. Was the world meant to feel quite so floaty?

“Not  _ all  _ the way. Maybe just enough to spill your guts a bit.” Crowley’s fingers were playing with the inside of Aziraphale’s muscles, which felt odd. Of course it sent small  _ zings  _ of pain through him, but his body didn’t seem sure where they were coming from. In addition to his shoulder hurting, his belly already ached, in a way that wasn’t dissimilar from arousal. Without even needing Crowley to gut him.

“Maybe another time,” Aziraphale said.

Grinning, Crowley asked, “You want to try this again?”

Another  _ I don’t know  _ almost passed Aziraphale’s lips, but then he saw Crowley lick his blood from his slender hand, and. Well. He was pretty sure the answer was yes.

“Put me back together first, then we’ll talk about it,” he said, just to be sure.

Crowley sat up on his knees, kissed Aziraphale slow and deep and thorough. It tasted like salt and iron. “Whatever you say, angel,” he promised.

Wriggling his stumps got a chuckle out of Crowley, but he still obediently knelt and picked up the first portion of Aziraphale’s left arm, which had been sluggishly oozing blood onto the hardwood. Without Aziraphale’s own heartbeat to push the blood out the gaping veins, only gravity could pull the fluid out, and not with much force.

Remarkable care went into Crowley lining the arm up again. “If I put this thing on backwards, I think I’d only get through one chuckle before you blessed every body of water in a hundred mile radius,” he muttered, biting his tongue with concentration.

“Please, I’m not that harsh. Tt would only be fifty.”

Again Crowley kissed Aziraphale. The wet squishing of his flesh on its own wound stopped, and then - the oddest sensation began.

Pain, but in reverse. Starting off with the dullness of an injury his brain had already learned to think around, going backwards into a crescendo when the injury would’ve theoretically happened. He could feel his muscles writhing without his say-so, knitting back into one another. A tendon  _ un _ snapped and unfurled back down just under his skin, writhing like a snake inside of him. And that - well, he  _ had  _ offered a Crowley a next time, they could talk about it later.

Once it was reattached, only a raw, pink line revealed that Aziraphale had recently been dismembered. Of course, he was still missing the majority of that limb, along with the entirety of the others. But Crowley was diligent, and so, so sweet as he got to work.

Aziraphale’s thigh was actually heavy enough that Crowley struggled a bit with keeping it where it belonged. Frustrated, he huffed, then lent his cheek on the increasingly clammy flesh. “Angel, you know I love how soft you are, but I didn’t want to use my powers to make myself stronger while I was already so focused on you.”

“Then don’t,” huffed Aziraphale. “Try working out, instead.”

Sticking his tongue out, Crowley made a face he knew would make Aziraphale laugh. And then he was turning his head, kissing the thigh he’d just nuzzled. “But I do love how soft you are,” he murmured. “Look at all this fat.” He poked at the thick layer, his finger sinking in a bit before it bounced back. “Delicious.”

“If you take a bite of me, I’m not letting you hear the end of it.”

“Oh?” Crowley bared his teeth, canines a bit more prominent than they should be. “But I thought you liked it when I bit you, angel.”

Blushes, as it turned out, were off the table while Aziraphale was still losing blood. But he still felt himself warm at the sight of Crowley opening his mouth wide,  _ so  _ wide, and setting his teeth on Aziraphale’s thigh. It was odd, a different angle than he usually saw such things at, and he couldn’t actually feel the pressure of those pointy teeth. But he could see, so clearly, the way Crowley’s lips closed over his skin.

Not that Crowley actually took a bite of him, no. But when he let go of the thigh, it was with a new hickey appearing high up it.

Next was Aziraphale’s other thigh, and then upper right arm. Left forearm, right forearm, both shins. Crowley didn’t rush the process, per se, but he didn’t linger too much. Their time frame might be far more generous than it would have been for humans, but that didn’t mean a whole lot, given the circumstances.

The arches of Aziraphale’s feet were kissed  _ while  _ they were put back in place, which was a singular feeling. The slow build of sensation, the pain that didn’t quite eclipse that ticklish pressure but rather turned it into something sweeter, kinder. Aziraphale thought he couldn’t feel more vulnerable than that.

Crowley proved him wrong with Aziraphale’s hands. Not his palms, but his fingers - Crowley licked  _ those  _ with even more care than he’d treated his own, wrapping that long tongue around raw, stubby ends and touching Aziraphale’s insides in a way that made him suddenly realize why Crowley wanted to touch his organs, too.

No one else had ever touched him  _ here.  _ Not ever, and no one else would. Especially not with that slow, perfect pace, one which said Crowley knew him more intimately than Aziraphale had thought was possible. One which said Aziraphale knew him, too, could destroy him with a word as easily as Crowley could with a snap of those fingers.

It was wonderful. It was nothing at all like Lascivious had been. It was loving.

Thankfully, Crowley didn’t call Aziraphale a sap when he finally, with intact, if raw hands, pulled Crowley in close. Granted his mouth was rather busy at the moment. But Aziraphale liked to think that, even if he hadn’t been kissing Crowley silly, the demon would’ve known better than to ruin the moment.


End file.
